We hosed down beets and carrots, loaded them in 10 lb. bundles in plastic bags, and tossed them into my sweetie's car with Ontario plates. Frost cold in the morning, pancakes digesting warm slowly my belly, we plan to drive them to Ipswich to deliver to a friend's farm. Twisting through Massachusetts countryside, car wants to fishtail with 700 lbs of root vegetables in the trunk, look at the imperial yellow and fading crimson leaves. Sun shines bright and almost defeats the cold, I sip fresh pressed apple cider and chat in a cross-section of time with dear friend in California, a lifetime away, pacing the grass under tall settled pines. We walk trails amongst trees and crops, dust crunching under stroller sleeping baby full of vigor. I imagine life among the fields, stone walls marking things ancient to me, roads twisting and not crowded. People gather and smile in the thick wooden barn, chilly and warmed by potluck, speak of farm seasons past and the baby eats a solitary pinto bean off my spoon, pacified.
It's passing my hand over something well-made from solid wood, it's a pondering vegetarian petting a vacant-eyed cow over a fence, it's hot cream of potato soup when you arrive cold and hungry, it's a bulky wool sweater pulled on first thing in the morning, it's your eyes telling me you'll be there, it's Occam's razor telling me to look again close to home, it's all these sentiments piled up in a picnic basket under a tree with us chillin' on the blanket
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